


Gently, With a Little Less Violence

by toyhto



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: A lot of wrestling, And some American lotion, Crack, M/M, Post-Canon, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27366460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: A story in which Napoleon falls asleep on Illya and then they wrestle a bit more.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 36
Kudos: 161





	Gently, With a Little Less Violence

**Author's Note:**

> Just got slightly inspired by the scene in which a fellow agent falls asleep on Illya in the middle of friendly wrestling. A nice scene with a tiny problem from my point of view. So I fixed it.
> 
> This is really a post-canon story, though. And these boys are dumb. You have been warned.
> 
> [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)

There was something wrong with Napoleon Solo. Illya had known that from the beginning but now it was becoming even more obvious.  
  
He took a deep breath, but not too deep, because Solo was lying on him. Then he thought about the situation. He supposed he had won the wrestling. That was a fortunate turn of events, because before falling asleep on him, Napoleon had had him quite tightly pressed on his back against the floor. Well, if Napoleon hadn’t fallen asleep, Illya would have thrown him over in a few seconds and won anyway.  
  
But as things were now, Napoleon was snoring slightly, his head resting against Illya’s shoulder and his hair poking into Illya’s mouth. Most of his weight was splayed quite comfortably on Illya’s chest and waist, but he was still heavy, warm, and smelled faintly of toothbrush and shampoo. He had taken a shower half an hour ago and then wandered to the living room, where Illya had been reading a book, perfectly happy to enjoy a moment of peace without Solo’s presence. It was a little unclear how they had ended up wrestling, but that happened sometimes.  
  
He thought about kicking Napoleon in the groin, which was nicely situated on his left thigh. That would have woken the man up. Or he could have elbowed Napoleon in the ribs. Or maybe patted the man on the shoulder. Or he could have brushed the hair from Napoleon’s face. It looked a little odd. He had been meaning to mention to Solo that maybe it was time to visit a barber.  
  
Anyway, there were many ways for him to wake Solo up. He thought about the issue for a while, and Napoleon stopped snoring and started again. Napoleon had certainly looked tired after their last mission, which had involved a lot of running, gunfight, stolen cars and talkative diplomats.  
  
It was a little tricky to get a good grip on Napoleon when the man was asleep, but Illya managed it in three seconds. He stood up on his feet and made sure that Napoleon’s head was resting against his shoulder. Napoleon would be cranky if his neck ached. Napoleon mumbled but didn’t wake up, and Illya carried him to the bedroom and placed carefully on the mattress. Fortunately, he was already wearing nothing but his pants which were Prada and of funny color.  
  
Illya tucked the duvet up to Napoleon’s chin, turned off the light and closed the door after himself.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“What happened last night?”  
  
Illya looked up from his book. He hoped the professionally nonchalant look on his face would tell Solo how little he appreciated that the man was bothering him with such an unimportant question.  
  
“Peril,” Solo said, still in the doorway and still obviously waiting for an answer, as if he didn’t know how to take a hint. The problem was, of course, that he did not.  
  
“Cowboy,” Illya said, “go away. I’m reading.”  
  
“No, but really,” Solo said, not walking away, “what I remember from last night is that we had a disagreement.”  
  
“You didn’t stop talking about your inaccurate opinions about Soviet car design.”  
  
“I remember that,” Solo said, walked to him and sat down next to him on the sofa. “And what happened then?”  
  
“You were wrong.”  
  
“Hmm,” Solo said. He had a cup of coffee in his hand and his bathrobe was hanging open. He crossed his legs and leaned against the back of the sofa. “And then we wrestled.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Sounds like a perfectly regular Tuesday night with you, Peril,” Solo said. “It’s just a little funny that I woke up in my own bed, and I don’t remember how I got there. Also, I was naked.”  
  
“You weren’t naked,” Illya said. “Or if you were, it was because you took off your underwear. But when I left you in bed, you certainly weren’t naked.”  
  
“Too bad. And when was that?”  
  
“Twenty-five minutes past eleven.”  
  
“I passed out twenty-five after eleven? What did you do to me?”  
  
“Nothing,” Illya said. “You were tired.”  
  
“ _Tired?”_ Solo repeated. Illya glanced at him. “Well, yeah,” Solo said and rubbed the side of his nose. “So, I fell asleep and you dragged me to the bed?”  
  
“I _carried_ you.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“I must admit that you’re heavier than you look.”  
  
Solo glanced at him. He picked up his book again but couldn’t remember what it was about. After he had stared at the book for a few seconds, he realized it was in German. Interesting.  
  
“You carried me to the bed, Peril,” Solo said in the tone he used when he was trying to fool someone into believing he wasn’t a disastrous CIA agent with no sense of fashion. “That was nice of you.”  
  
“It wasn’t nice,” Illya pointed out. “It was necessary. You had fallen asleep on me. I had to remove you.”  
  
“Ah, I see,” Solo said. “I had fallen asleep _on_ you.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“While we were wrestling.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, I _was_ feeling a bit tired yesterday.” Solo cleared his throat. “Thank you.”  
  
“Do not thank me.”  
  
“Okay,” Solo said and nodded at Illya’s lap. “What’s the book about?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Illya said and then glared at Solo until Solo realized he was interrupting Illya’s reading and should go. It took a while. And when Solo got up onto his feet and left, he only went to the kitchen, got himself more coffee and then came back to sofa, sat down next to Illya again and kept on sipping his coffee in a happy American way. How irritating. Illya kind of wanted to wrestle but didn’t know how to say it.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“What’re you thinking about?” Solo asked.  
  
“What do you mean, what am I thinking about?” Illya asked.  
  
“I’m just curious,” Solo said. He had both Illya’s wrists in a tight grip and he was holding them against the floor above Illya’s head. Coincidentally, Illya was lying on his back and Solo was sitting on his crotch. “You have a funny look in your eyes.”  
  
“I am never funny.”  
  
“I know that,” Solo said, which was a little optimistic. Solo knew nothing. “I just hope you aren’t getting sick,” Solo said, sounding genuinely worried. The man was an idiot. And American. Illya certainly didn’t know what he was doing here, lying on the floor under Solo. “I kind of need you tomorrow, Peril. So that if the Italian mafia decides to kidnap me, you’re there to save me.”  
  
“I’m not going to get sick,” he told Solo, pulling his arms but not with enough force that Solo would have to let go. They had been wrestling for some time now and he was getting tired. Besides, it was half past eleven already. It was Solo’s bedtime. “This is the part where you fell asleep. The last time.”  
  
“Oh,” Solo said, blinking. His eyelashes were long, dark and American. _“Oh_. That’s why you’re looking at me as if you’re expecting me to, I don’t know, fall asleep right here, with your body under mine.”  
  
“Yes. Exactly.”  
  
“I’m not going to fall asleep, Peril.”  
  
“You did yesterday.”  
  
“I’m not tired now,” Solo said and yawned. “What’s the time?”  
  
“Half past eleven.”  
  
“I’m not tired yet,” Solo said and tightened his grip on Illya’s wrists. Illya could have thrown him off any moment, it was just that he was a little distracted and also they were in the middle of the living room, right next to the coffee table, and he didn’t want Solo to hit his head against it. It had sharp corners which might have caused damage even to Solo’s thick skull.  
  
Solo yawned again.  
  
“You’re falling asleep,” Illya said.  
  
“I’m definitely not,” Solo said, staring at him. He looked even more American when he was losing his consciousness.  
  
“I do not understand how this is possible,” Illya said. “You drink coffee all the time.”  
  
“I’m not going to fall asleep,” Solo said, looking like he was about to fall asleep.  
  
Illya tugged his hands free. Then he took a firm grip on Napoleon’s waist and removed him. Then he stumbled onto his feet, put a hand around Napoleon’s back and lifted him up.  
  
“Peril,” Napoleon said. He had his face against Illya’s neck. He smelled of toothpaste and coffee. “What’re you doing?”  
  
“Taking you to bed.”  
  
“I need to take a piss.”  
  
“I’m not going to carry you to the bathroom.”  
  
“I really need to take a piss,” Napoleon said.  
  
Illya carried Napoleon to the bathroom. It was no problem. There, Napoleon pissed in the toilet and told Illya he didn’t need to watch, so he watched just to let Napoleon know he didn’t take orders from a sleepy CIA agent who should have been in bed ten minutes ago.  
  
When Napoleon had washed his hands, Illya picked him up again and carried to the bedroom.  
  
“Thanks,” Napoleon said, when Illya tucked him up under the duvet. “I don’t know why I’m so tired.”  
  
“Maybe you wrestle too much.”  
  
“Entirely your fault,” Napoleon said in a drowsy voice. “What’re you going to do now?”  
  
“Read a book.”  
  
“Do you already know what it’s about? You’ve been reading it the whole day.”  
  
“Of course.” Illya cleared his throat and stared at Napoleon, who had closed his eyes. It was completely unprofessional to look so helpless in the company of a KGB agent. “It is… it is a story.”  
  
“A story –“  
  
“About people.”  
  
“Oh,” Napoleon said without opening his eyes. “ _People._ ”  
  
“Yes. They are… a man and a man. In Venice.”  
  
“Peril,” Napoleon said, “ _we_ are in Venice.”  
  
“That’s true,” Illya said. They had been in Venice for four days now. Illya didn’t much care about the city. There was water everywhere.  
  
“A nice coincidence,” Napoleon said, and then he fell asleep. Illya looked at him for a while to make sure that he wouldn’t for example die or wake up and say something stupid. But a little after one, Illya was becoming tired himself. He went to his own bedroom, checked that the bugs he had put in Napoleon’s pillow were fine, and then got in the bed. He was a thorough agent and always slept better when he heard Napoleon breathing.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Peril,” Solo said two days later, looking at Illya in a way that was hard to categorize. “Tell me you didn’t bug my pillow.”  
  
Illya straightened his back and put his book away. “I bugged your pillow.”  
  
Solo shook his head slowly. “At least tell me you haven’t been listening to me breathing at night.”  
  
“You breathe very loudly,” Illya said. “And sometimes you snore.”  
  
“Good lord,” Solo said. It didn’t make any sense, but many things that Solo said didn’t. For example, this morning Solo had said that he wanted to show Illya the best places in Venice. As if they were going to walk around the city together, just the two of them, side by side, ‘for fun’. “You do realize that I’m not the point of your mission here, do you?”  
  
“Waverly still hasn’t given us new information about what we should do with the gangsters. I have free time.”  
  
“Well, I’m flattered you’re using it on me,” Solo said, frowning, “but surely there’re easier ways to listen to me breathing.”  
  
“Easier than using Soviet-made interception device?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Illya said.  
  
Solo was looking at him. “My room is right there.”  
  
He stared at Solo. “So?”  
  
“So, my room is _right there_ ,” Solo said, staring at him as if he didn’t understand something. “You could just _listen to me breathing._ ”  
  
“I _am_ listening to you breathing,” Illya said. Last night, he had listened to Napoleon breathing for at least an hour in bed until he had fallen asleep. In the morning, he had had to change the battery to the speaker.  
  
“Yeah, but…” Solo took a deep breath and then another. Hopefully he wasn’t having difficulties with his lungs. That would have been very unfortunate for an agent. On the other hand, Solo was already a very unfortunate agent in various aspects. “Peril?”  
  
“Yes?” Illya asked.  
  
“Do you want to wrestle?”  
  
Illya swallowed. “Yes.”  
  
“Great,” Solo said and smiled at him. Solo’s smile was unmistakably American. Illya didn’t like it all. “I’ll just go change my clothes.”  
  
“Don’t put on your blue tie.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
“It doesn’t go work with that shirt.”  
  
“Maybe I should just take my clothes off if you find my sense of fashion so lacking.”  
  
“Great idea,” Illya said.  
  
Solo smiled at him. He stared at Solo the Russian way, but his face felt a little odd.  
  
  
**  
  
  
On Friday night they were wrestling in Illya’s bedroom, when Waverly came to the flat.  
  
“What’re you doing?” Waverly asked, stopping in the doorway. Illya would have answered, but he had just managed to squeeze Solo against the floor with his body and was slightly out of breath. Besides, he had to concentrate, or else Solo would wriggle free. “No,” Waverly added, which was odd because no one had yet said anything. Solo was panting and trying to push his bottom against Illya’s thigh, apparently to throw Illya off. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to know what you’re doing. Or why.”  
  
“We’re wrestling,” Solo said.  
  
“You have a KGB agent on you,” Waverly said, tilting his head to the side. “And you are… never mind.”  
  
“Yes,” Solo said, “wrestling.”  
  
Waverly cleared his throat. “Great. So, I have new information about your mission. While you two have been… wrestling, Gaby has been following our target’s son in Milan. We need to discuss how to… Is it any way possible that you would let go of each other when I’m discussing important agent stuff with you?”  
  
“I was winning,” Illya said.  
  
“No, you weren’t,” Solo said and then made an odd American noise, when Illya grabbed both his shoulders and pulled him up. Solo’s tie had got wrinkled so Illya straightened it and then stepped back. He _had_ been winning. Whatever Solo had been trying to do with his butt in the end would never have worked out.  
  
Twenty minutes later, Waverly was at the front door and Solo was glancing at Illya as if wishing they’d finish their wrestling the moment Waverly would leave. Illya glared back at Solo in the Russian way.  
  
“I don’t know what’s happening here,” Waverly said and left.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Peril?”  
  
“Cowboy?”  
  
“Did I snore?” Solo asked, walked to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. His hair was still wet from the shower, he smelled of Illya’s soap and he was wearing a bathrobe but nothing under it, which was good, because none of his pants really worked with that bathrobe.  
  
“Yes,” Illya said.  
  
“So, you were listening.”  
  
“Of course I was listening.”  
  
“Hmm,” Solo said and sat at the table across from Illya. He glared at Solo but refused to put away his book. He still hadn’t figured out what it was about. This morning, he had managed to read three words until Solo had distracted him by going to take a shower. Solo made a lot of obscure noises when he was in shower. Illya was professionally curious about whether Solo was pleasing himself with his hand in their shared bathroom or maybe just enjoyed warm water falling on his body. Either option seemed possible. Napoleon was weirdly content with his body, as if he was always thinking about how compact and firm and nicely shaped it was, and how the muscles in his thighs tightened while he was on Illya, trying to grab Illya’s head in between his thighs -  
  
“What’re you thinking about, Peril?”  
  
Illya cleared his throat and sipped his tea. “Soviet architecture.”  
  
“Of course,” Solo said, watching him. “So, Waverly wants us to wait while Gaby is taking care of the situation in Milan.”  
  
“Apparently so.”  
  
“I don’t know how we’re going to pass the time,” Solo said and shrugged. “We could wrestle.”  
  
“Yes,” Illya said.  
  
He finished his tea and Solo finished his coffee, and then they wrestled a little. He had some troubles getting a good grip of Solo after the man had shrugged off his bathrobe and was naked. He wondered if Solo was using some kind of lotion and if so, if that counted as cheating. Maybe he could borrow Solo’s lotion, and then the next time they would wrestle, he would be naked and slippery too. That would make it much harder for Solo to manage to climb onto him and clutch onto his shoulders while he was trying to gather his breathing. Solo’s fingers were digging quite nicely into his muscles. He had always enjoyed violence of this sort – a nice friendly wrestle in a private space with a fellow agent. Then Solo kneed him in the crotch.  
  
“I hate you,” he told Solo, when he could talk again without his voice shaking.  
  
“I know,” Solo said, pressing his chest against Illya’s back, one of his hands on Illya’s throat and the other in Illya’s hair. “Sorry.”  
  
Illya blinked. “Sorry?”  
  
“Yeah,” Solo said, sounding only slightly embarrassed. Such an American. “Maybe I shouldn’t have poked you at the dick. But it realized it was right there and couldn’t help it.”  
  
Illya took a deep breath. It was difficult, because Solo was still holding him down against the floor with all his weight. “You realized I have a penis and could not keep yourself from touching it.”  
  
“Yeah,” Solo said. His hand in Illya’s hair became gentler. “Why’s your hair like this?”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Soft.”  
  
“Nothing about me is soft,” Illya said, not thinking about his penis. The pain had almost faded already anyway. He bit his lip and then rolled onto his side, and Solo fell onto the floor. Sadly, Solo stopped stroking Illya’s hair in the process, but it was worth it. Illya was going to win the wrestle. He was going to…  
  
He was going to do something about it. In a moment. He just needed to breathe a little. He rolled onto his back and glanced at Solo, who was lying on the floor next to him, watching him and breathing hard.  
  
“Peril,” Solo said, “we’ve been wrestling a lot.”  
  
“Yes,” Illya said. “Are you tired or something?”  
  
“Of course not. Are you?”  
  
“No.” He was tired. Last night, he had had trouble falling asleep, because he hadn’t wanted to turn down the volume on the speaker he used to listen Napoleon breathe in the other bedroom.  
  
“Great,” Solo said, sounding tired. “Maybe we could wrestle a little bit more.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“But,” Solo said, blinking at Illya, “what if we wrestled a little more slowly this time?”  
  
Illya cleared his throat. “Slowly?”  
  
“Yes,” Solo said in a somewhat tight voice. Maybe he was cold. He was lying naked on the floor, after all. “And with a little less violence.”  
  
“Less violence?”  
  
“Like, gently.”  
  
“Gently,” Illya said.  
  
“Yes,” Solo said. “And also… you’re wearing more clothes than me.”  
  
“I noticed that.”  
  
“Do you want me to put on something?”  
  
“That’s not necessary,” Illya said. “Why are you so slippery?”  
  
“I use lotion.”  
  
“I knew it.”  
  
“Do you want some?” Solo asked. “Because I’ve got a lot, and it smells good.”  
  
Illya thought about it for a moment. He had never considered he might one day try American lotion, but then again, no one would ever know. Unless Solo told someone. But he didn’t understand why Solo would tell anyone about the two of them wrestling naked in the bedroom. There was nothing interesting about that. Russian literature, on the other hand -  
  
“Okay,” he said.  
  
“Great,” Solo said and sat up on the floor. His knees crackled. Maybe he had been wise to suggest that they would wrestle more gently from now on. His joints clearly couldn’t handle the Russian way. “I’m going to get it, then. Are you going to wait here?”  
  
Illya sat up on the floor. He supposed he didn’t have any reason to go anywhere. “Yes.”  
  
“Good,” Solo said, stood up and disappeared to the bathroom. Illya waited on the floor. While he was waiting, he took off his socks, and then once he had started, he took off his turtleneck, his trousers and his undershirt. He was thinking about taking off his pants, but then Solo came back. “Oh,” Solo said.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing.” Solo was staring at him now. He supposed that was because Solo hadn’t yet seen him wearing so few clothes. Unlike Solo, he didn’t like to walk around in the flat in his underwear. There was a draft coming from the kitchen window. “I just…” Solo added, frowning. “Are you going to keep your pants on?”  
  
“Of course not,” Illya said and then took his pants off. Solo looked a little surprised, which didn’t make sense at all. Also, Solo’s neck was turning pink and he kept glancing at Illya’s penis. “Are you not feeling well?”  
  
“No,” Solo said and then swallowed, “yes. I mean… yes, I’m feeling… something.”  
  
“Good,” Illya said. It would be a shame if Solo caught a cold. Maybe he should warn Solo about the draft in the kitchen.  
  
“I brought the lotion,” Solo said, sounding a little distracted.  
  
“Great.”  
  
“So, maybe I should just…”  
  
“Give it to me.”  
  
“Of course,” Solo said and gave the jar of lotion to him. He opened the lid. The lotion smelled American but in a nice way, a lot like Solo. It also smelled of Solo. He dipped his fingers in the stuff and then started applying it on his skin. Solo stared at him. Perhaps he thought Illya didn’t know how to use lotion.  
  
“I know how to use lotion.”  
  
“I’m sure,” Solo said, not sounding sure.  
  
“I _do._ ”  
  
“Yes. I’m not…” Solo paused. “You missed a spot.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“On your thigh.”  
  
“No, I didn’t.”  
  
“Can I just…” Solo kneeled on the floor next to him and put hands on his thigh. They were a little cold. He flinched. “Sorry,” Solo said but kept stroking Illya’s thigh with his palms until both the palms and Illya’s thigh started to warm up. Illya wondered why they were doing this and then remembered the lotion again. “What do you think of the scent?” Solo asked.  
  
“It’s nice,” Illya said, staring at Solo’s hands on him. “Smells of you.”  
  
“Good,” Solo said, glanced at him and then kept stroking his thigh. He was about to point out that there certainly was lotion everywhere on the area now but then didn’t bother. “I’m not trying to hint that I wouldn’t like the way you normally smell, Peril. Because you smell nice. Very masculine.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“And of tea.”  
  
“It’s because I drink a lot of tea.”  
  
“I supposed so.” Solo paused. “Could we… what if we… we could just go back to what we were doing before…”  
  
“Before you kneed me in my penis.”  
  
Solo coughed. “Yeah. Before that.”  
  
“I think I was lying on my stomach on the floor.”  
  
“No, that was after. I believe you were on your knees, trying crawl away from me.”  
  
“I do not _crawl,_ ” Illya pointed out. He was a person of dignity.  
  
“Of course not,” Solo said, stroking Illya’s knee. “You can lie on your stomach if you want to.”  
  
He kind of did, but there were slight disadvantages to that position, for example, he wouldn’t be able to see Solo’s face that way. “Maybe on my back.”  
  
“Alright,” Solo said and stopped touching his knee. It was a disappointment, but he was an excellent KGB agent and capable of completely hiding his feelings, especially from himself.  
  
He settled on his back on the floor, and Solo climbed onto him. Solo’s face was bright pink now, except for the tip of his nose. However, he still looked very handsome for an American. He looked down at Illya and then put his hands on Illya’s hips.  
  
“With little less violence, was it?” Solo asked.  
  
“I don’t mind violence.”  
  
“Me neither,” Solo said right away, “but maybe for a change –“  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Can I just…” Solo began, paused and reached towards Illya’s face. Illya was waiting for some kind of gentle American violence, but Solo just pushed his fingers into Illya’s hair and then moved them there. “It’s so _soft._ What have you –“  
  
“I washed it.”  
  
“You washed your hair.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Solo said. He was kind of petting Illya’s hair now. Or Illya’s scalp, because Illya’s hair couldn’t feel anything, but Illya certainly could. “Peril.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“You are…” Solo blinked and glanced down at Illya’s penis. “Your… you’re hard.”  
  
“You have been aroused for the last twenty minutes,” Illya said. “I thought you didn’t want to discuss it.”  
  
“I didn’t,” Solo said and frowned. “I don’t. I just… can I touch it?”  
  
“The subject?”  
  
“No. Your…”  
  
“My penis?”  
  
Solo nodded.  
  
“Of course,” Illya said. “But don’t hurt it.”  
  
“Of course not,” Solo said and touched Illya’s penis.  
  
It turned out Solo was great at handling Illya’s penis. He put his fingers around it gently and not violently, squeezed just the right amount, moved his hand at the right speed, and when Illya told him to stop playing and do it already, he did. Ejaculating in Solo’s hand felt a little intimate but not as intimate as using Solo’s American lotion. And the noise Solo made when Illya took his penis in his hand was very nice despite being very American, too. Illya felt intellectually compromised but didn’t much care at the moment, which of course made him feel even more intellectually compromised, but he couldn’t think about that, because Solo’s penis in his hand was hard and soft at the same time, such as a Russian paradox, very firm but silky to touch, and warm, and a little damp, and when he brushed his thumb over the tip, Solo made a noise that sounded like he was trying to swallow his own tongue. Illya didn’t want him to do that but for some reason brushed his thumb over the tip again. He didn’t exactly enjoy the feeling of Solo’s semen on his fingers but he enjoyed the way Solo was staring at him. It was so utterly American. He could wash his hands later.  
  
“Peril,” Solo said. He had his chest against Illya’s now and he was moving back and forth as if he was trying to fuck into Illya’s fist. His face was all flushed. Illya wondered if this was what Solo looked like when he was having sex.  
  
“Yes?” Illya asked.  
  
“Illya,” Solo said, closed his eyes and opened them again, “can you just…”  
  
“What?” Illya asked.  
  
“Can you…” Solo took a sharp breath and stopped fucking Illya’s fist for a second. He was trembling all over. Maybe he should exercise more. Illya could help him with that. They could wrestle. “Can you push your finger into my butt?”  
  
“Into your butt?”  
  
“Only if you want to.”  
  
“Okay,” Illya said. It was a challenge to find the entrance to Solo’s butt, especially since now Solo was fucking into Illya’s fist again and in a very frantic rhythm. But when Illya managed it, the way Solo looked at him nicely compensated the trouble. Also, it wasn’t exactly unpleasant to have his finger in Solo’s butt.  
  
“And one more thing,” Solo said, looking like he was about to ejaculate any moment now. Illya wasn’t certain if he wanted it to happen already or drag it out as long as he could. Maybe both.  
  
“Yes? What?”  
  
“Can you…” Solo bit his lip. “This is a little bit embarrassing.”  
  
“Tell me,” Illya said, circling his finger in Solo’s butt.  
  
“Can you… kiss me?” Solo asked.  
  
He kissed Solo on the cheek and then, when Solo made an objective noise, on the mouth. _Americans._ But he quite liked the kissing. Solo kissed him back fiercely and with no self-control, like a capitalist. He realized he liked it, too. Well, that was weird. But he didn’t have much time to think about it, because Solo fucked into his fist once more and came, and he had to figure out when to pull his finger out of Solo’s ass. Also, his own penis had apparently got half-hard again.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He spent a minute watching Napoleon sleeping on the floor. Napoleon was still naked and also sniffling in his sleep. Illya would have to fix the kitchen window as soon as possible.  
  
Then Napoleon opened his eyes and looked at him.  
  
“Cowboy,” he said.  
  
“Peril,” Solo said, blinking. “I fell asleep.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“On the floor.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“After we…” Solo took a deep breath and rolled onto his back. Then he glanced at Illya. Then he glanced at Illya again. “Thank you.”  
  
“I didn’t do anything.”  
  
Solo laughed and then went serious very quickly. “You kissed me.”  
  
Oh, that. “It wasn’t difficult. Your face was right there.”  
  
“I suppose it was,” Solo said. “Peril?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Do you mind if I sometimes call you Illya?”  
  
Illya thought about it. “No, I don’t mind.”  
  
“Okay,” Solo said.  
  
Illya stared at him for a moment.  
  
“I need to get coffee,” Solo said and sat up on the floor.  
  
“Cowboy?” Illya said. “Do you mind if I call you Napoleon?”  
  
“Hmm,” Solo said, sounding very American. “Of course not. Please, do call me Napoleon.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“You can call me Napoleon anytime you like, Illya.”  
  
“Great.”  
  
“Especially when we’re…” Solo glanced at the floor. “Wrestling.”  
  
“That makes sense.” It didn’t.  
  
“Yeah,” Solo said and stood up. Then he froze for a second and stretched his hand out to Illya, who was still sitting on the floor. “Come on.”  
  
“I have your semen in my hand.”  
  
“Maybe you should wash it then.”  
  
“I was going to but you fell asleep.”  
  
“And you wanted to listen to me breathing, I’m sure,” Napoleon said, grabbed Illya’s hand and pulled him up onto his feet. He straightened his back to show Napoleon that even though he was now using Napoleon’s American lotion, he was still taller than the other man. Napoleon’s penis twitched.  
  
“There’s a draft coming from the kitchen window,” Illya said, not exactly sure why. “Maybe we should put some clothes on.”  
  
“Good idea,” Napoleon said.  
  
“And then,” Illya said slowly, “maybe we could walk around the city and watch the buildings.”  
  
“Sounds good,” Napoleon said, watching him. “Really? You’d do that? With me?”  
  
“Yes,” he said and cleared his throat. “I know a lot about buildings. I can tell you something.”  
  
“You can?”  
  
“Yes. They were invented in Russia.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Okay,” Napoleon said and put his hand on the small of Illya’s back. It felt sticky. But then again, Napoleon hadn’t washed his hands after the wrestling, either. “Is this okay?”  
  
“Yes,” Illya said. Then they went to the kitchen.


End file.
